Lady Impa's morning is carefully laid out before her as a steaming cup of tea and loose leafed paper, Sheikah schematics to be pored over between now and noon. Winter's promised return presses up against the castle's walls, and it has Impa digging out a wool blanket out from one of the linen closets. She wraps it around her shoulders and reaches for her teacup, jagged cobalt across cream colored ceramic, and as the orange blossom blend trickles down her throat and her eyes fixate on the long, bright stretch of Hyrule Field through the study's window, she finds herself a little thrilled by the prospect of a calm, cozy morning; with so much to attend to these days, they are far and few between.
But the ever elusive comfort is just out of reach, hastily snatched away by a summons at her door; at a guard's hand, the King of Hyrule requests an audience with the Sheikah advisor.
Impa begrudgingly sheds her blanket, quickly dips a piece of her pastry in her teacup and swallows it down before she's abandoning the comfort of her privacy in favor of the castle's hallowed halls, schematics in hand in the event that the King is looking for an informal briefing of sorts. Reaching his study feels like a voyage of its own, as though she ought to have arrived at her hometown of Kakariko by the time she finds herself before the oaken panels of his quarters.
She's long learned to hold her nerves around the King, but when her title is announced at his door and his glance falls upon her, something chills her spine; perhaps it has something to do with the lack of authority she finds in it, something far more curious and unfamiliar in its stead. It leaves her uncertain, her axis misaligned.
"Your Majesty," Impa starts, bowing deeply at the room's threshold.
"Good morning, Lady Impa." King Rhoam sets his quill down and leans back in his chair, threading fingers across his stomach. A smile, tight-lipped and hollow, ripples ever so gently across his lips. "Please enter, my dear."
Impa rises to full height, head still tilted down in a show of respect. "Good morning to you as well. How may I be of assistance, Your Majesty?
The King gestures to the unoccupied seat before him with an outstretched hand. Impa obliges without a word and sinks into the boysenberry of crushed velvet just as Rhoam begins to speak: "I apologize for requesting you so early, and without much of a notice. I do hope that I have not interrupted anything of importance."
"Nothing at all," Impa smiles wistfully, recalling the tea that's almost certainly fully chilled by now.
"Allow me to be concise. I see you've brought your research with you," he nods towards the scrolls across her lap, "but you will not need them. I've actually asked you here because…" he leans forward and places his elbows upon his desk, a heavy sigh tumbling past lips that twist in contemplation, "...well, I'd like to get your opinion on something."
"Regarding the Divine Beasts? I have a meeting with my sister early next week, we'll have more—"
He raises a hand, and the first sight of it mutes her thought, her voice breaking clean. "No, no, not of the Beasts. In truth, I've actually called you here to inquire about my daughter."
This piques Impa's curiosity, something newly urgent flashing across scarlet eyes. "The Princess? Has something happened?"
"No." Rhoam cocks his head to the side, eyes creasing at the edges when his face scrunches in contemplation. "Well, I suppose I cannot say for certain. Hence why you are here." He tosses her a knowing look. "I feel that I might be missing something with her." Impa watches as the King turns slightly, angles himself so that he's looking beyond her attentive watch, his gray eyes boring into the trim of dark wood that cuts across the ceiling as he calculates his thoughts. "How is her training coming along? Has she made progress?"
Impa blinks slowly, her focus loosening as she digs for an answer. "Not that I am aware of. If she has made any major strides, I have not been informed of them…" A small part of her wonders if there is something she's missed, heartbeat quickening as she wonders if the monarch is ready to chide her for her ignorance.
Rhoam clings to the slight hint of hope that her voice carries as it trails off, snowy brows raised in anticipation, but when he finds she has nothing more to offer, he continues on: "You see, I've noticed a difference in her. And I can't help wondering if there is something I'm missing. Surely you've noticed?" Impa tilts her head, brow crinkled in contemplation, but before she can string a sentence together, the King's monologue continues: "Something has changed in her. She is…less combative than before. Less tense." He reaches a hand through the white curtain of his beard and rubs at his chin. "I'd feared that her failure at the Spring of Courage might have disheartened her, yet she is…how shall I say this...she is less of a ghost than in months past. Brighter."
Impa turns his words over in her mind again and again. "I see."
Rhoam leans further in, squinting a little, almost as if he's sharing a morsel of gossip he's earned in one the darkened alleyways of Castle Town. "But, tell me—you have noticed a change in her, yes?"
In truth, Impa is only noticing now, beneath the King's watchful eye as he stares her down from across the table; but as she thinks about, really truly takes a moment to think past the Divine Beasts and long held prophecies and ancient texts, something has changed about the Princess; her smile a little less cloistered, certainly less plaintive— and the small rain cloud hovering over her golden head much less present these days.
"You are correct, Your Majesty. I think there is a bit of difference," she says, courteously, "but I cannot presume to know why."
The thin crease across the King's forehead wrinkles further when he narrows his eyes in pronounced thought. "I would imagine a lack of progress would be…disheartening…" he muses, eyes searching for something in the Sheikah's.
"I would imagine that as well," Impa agrees, senses alight. She's aware that her counsel is valued, but she finds the matter unusual, so tight-lipped she chooses to stay. Silence settles on them heavily, almost suffocating, and just when Impa opens her mouth to inquire further, Rhoam is speaking again.
"And what of Sir Link?"
It gives her pause. "What of him?"
"Has she learned to work with him?"
"Truthfully, Your Majesty, she has not spoken of him to me. He is…around, I suppose. But very little is exchanged between them. I could not say for certain whether their relationship has improved or not."
Rhoam studies her, something small crumpling his lips, almost humorous in the small shadows the morning light casts across his face. "Lady Impa, might you investigate a little further for me?"
"On Sir Link?"
"Of him and my daughter."
Impa finds her senses sharply attuned, head turned slightly as though she's craning to hear him better, wondering just precisely what he's implying.
"I know it may seem unreasonable," Rhoam continues, settling open palms across the top of his desk, "but if my daughter has developed feelings for this young man...well, that's very sweet and all…but if he has turned into a distraction, we may need to rethink our strategy. You understand, yes?"
Impa does understand, but somehow, she can't keep frustration from riling up in her, reaching for that crest before it crashes down over her; it is a shame, she thinks, to hear that the King might consider such normal feelings as dispensable, as something inherently bad—that unless his daughter is to spend every waking moment with fear of the Goddess piercing her heart, her existence is meaningless; that her life must be relegated to nothing but suffering.
"You've seen more warmth from her, no?"
Impa swallows. "In truth, I have noticed very little."
Rhoam props his elbow onto the table and slots his chin against the side of his hand. "More warmth. More smiles. Fewer complaints." A plaintive chuckle mounts at the edge of his voice. "It's just a thought."
Impa tries to recall the moments she's seen pass between the two of them in recent weeks. The Princess, a little brighter, yes—her knight just as impassive as she's always known him to be. Hardly ever apart, their meals shared together, days falling to nights in each other's company. Excursions spent with only the other's face and voice to serve as any sort of support. It's not an unreasonable assumption, really…but then Impa thinks of Zelda's scoffs and hears how clearly the memory of the vibrates in her head, remembers the way the Princess had rolled her eyes above any compliments directed towards the knight by her maids…and she has to swallow the giggle down before it trickles from her lips.
"He is our most talented knight…would he be removed from her service?" she asks.
"I suppose the matter will be up for discussion if it comes to it."
Impa nods curtly, eyes flickering away, just in case His Majesty's able to find the morsel of exasperation in them. "I see."
"I do hate to sound so tyrannical about this," Rhoam says, his voice more like a low rumble. "But we are running out of time."
"Is there anything specific you would have me look for?" Rhoam gives Impa a knowing look, one that tells her he doesn't much care to learn any specifics about his daughter's hypothetical intimacy. She raises open palms in defeat, a new flush riding high across her cheeks. "Understood."
"Please be discreet about this, Lady Impa. She has suffered so much already."
With a shared parting nod, Impa is dismissed, and the long walk back to the study is marked with uncertainty; she'd taken in pride in her observant eye—found herself enlisted in the Royal Family's service because of it—but the notion that she's missed something potentially so conspicuous gnaws at her, nips at her heels all the way back and taunts her when she finally picks up a teacup grown tepid.
It's not impossible, she realizes, that she may have missed something somewhere along the line.
The air smells like the promise of snow; so close to following through, the heavens whispering not yet, not yet all the while.
Zelda sits in a study tucked away in the southwestern part of the castle, settled in at one of its many mahogany desks with her glance fastened tightly to a passage in one of the textbooks currently on loan from the Kakariko elders. It's her second time scouring through this one: a comprehensive study on the construction of Vah Medoh, a joint venture between the Sheikah engineers and the avian pilots of Tabantha. She's seen a few of the original documents before—at least, those that still exist (part of her heaves with frustration at the lack of preservation of such things) but the bulk of the current text she works from rings with speech long dragged through the pitfalls of language, ancient Sheikah translated into the antiquated Rito tongue and back again.
And though the Princess finds herself entrenched in the readings, she's acutely aware of her knight attendant seated a little deeper in the room, stationed atop the cushions tucked into the nook of the large bay window, his knowing eyes like bright pops of ice against cloudy skies. And even though she finds herself aware of his presence, it's a little less stifling than before; she no longer doubts herself in its shadow —in truth, something in it pushes her forward.
Not a word of Faron has passed between either of their lips since their return some weeks prior. Sometimes, Zelda feels as though the whole ordeal had been nothing but a figment of her imagination; but if that were truly the case, then the dilution of their relationship into something far more amiable would be nothing but a trick of the light—his sounds, the precise tones and whimpers that she stores in the deepest parts of her brain and peeks at when sleep eludes her, would be nothing more than a wish on her part. He speaks now, far more fluidly. She supposes he could speak more, if he really wanted to, but she no longer spends countless hours guessing as to what is in his mind. He'll share them, without wrangling. Occasionally, he initiates—he initiates !
"It's quiet today," Zelda hums through the hush, her gaze running across a paragraph detailing the first week of Vah Medoh's construction. It's a lazy glance, only half tethered to the fine print; she seeks her knight's look from across the room and feels something loosen in her shoulders when she captures it. "I find myself enjoying it."
Link rewards her with a smile that warms her much in the same way that the sight of sunlight spilling through grumbling clouds brightens her, a postlude of warmth across the distant peaks after rain. "Perfect for studying then," he says. "And if you get cold, I can find a blanket for you." There's something so delicate about the way he says it—his tone is so much warmer, like he's asking what she might want him to prepare for breakfast. Perhaps even more exhilarating than that, like he's about to hand her a sapphire as a solstice gift.
Her cheeks heat.
"That's kind of you. I think I'm well for now." Zelda inhales, sharp air striking her nostrils. "I do hope it snows soon."
Link tips his head to the side in thought, his smile curling into his cheek a little.
"Do you not enjoy snow?" Zelda asks, the hint of his diffidence like fingers around her throat.
He wrinkles his nose. "No, not really."
Zelda folds her hands across the open page and laughs. "Which tells me you've never had a proper snowball fight, then."
Link looks a bit like she's just cursed in front of him. "And I must admit that I'm a little surprised to learn that that you of all people have."
Golden locks are soon tucked behind her ear, her shy smile cloaked beneath the smallest of gestures. "To be fair, it isn't much of a fight when one is standing there letting themselves be pelted with snow. That's how Impa participates," she adds at his slightly confused expression. He nods in comprehension, lips parted slightly in a silent ah. "Will you fight with me later, when the snow finally falls?"
He nods, eyes far more luminous than they have any right to be. "Yes."
Zelda looks at him, her lips twisted in a way she prays he only views as amusingly stern. "You promise you won't hold back?"
He clears his throat above a small laugh. "Only partially. But yes, I'll participate. I'll…" he thinks for a moment and finds the thought, balances humor and affability and professionalism so neatly on his tongue when he says: "...I'll be sure to pelt you."
"Good." Her lips press up against one another much in the same way his own shy smile reappears. Parting looks unlace themselves from one another, Zelda's flushed face returning to her book while Link's own glance darts back out the window, surveying the scene as though he's never tasted winter before.
Even with cordial words and favorable smiles, the distance somehow feels larger than ever.
The sun slips across the sky, shrouded in the pale tumble of cloudy gray, and Zelda clings tightly to the paragraphs before her, occasionally jumping backwards when she realizes she's gone an entire sentence without properly parsing through the words on the page—her mind elsewhere. The author speaks at length about terminals…nodules…an interface that will allow a user to access navigational controls from beyond the machine. It's incredible, really, that technology like this existed so many years prior.
Zelda gingerly slides a finger beneath the cotton thin paper and flips, unveiling a large diagram of Vah Medoh's interior on the page that follows. She recognizes the shape of it, each chamber marked off within the frame of the Beast's passerine form by vaguely scrawled lines. She slides across flimsy paper, her index finger careful to keep from pressing too hard on the document (really, she should be wearing some sort of protective glove, shouldn't she?) and it's then that something catches her eye; it's faded, almost entirely imperceptible to her eye, but it's there —the tiniest echo of a thought from a decamillennium ago.
A soft gasp hitches in her throat.
"Oh! Link! Come look at this…what do you think of it?" she says, waving a hand to beckon him over. She startles him, but she'd never have known without looking; silently, he heeds her call, rises from his seat and closes the distance between them. "See this here?" Zelda starts, pointing to a particular section near the mandible of the machinated bird, and Link promptly slips into the chair beside her and nods. "These lines...they're faded, right"—parchment crinkles below her finger when she moves it across the sketched lines of the avian structure—"right here , see?"
The faintest trace of ink from lifetimes gone by, like something hidden—balked notions that someone had perhaps quietly set aside in the development stages. But still, it haunts her, that thought—the implications of what else could be lurking within the Beast. Viridian green narrows in observation, runs along the thin sliver of cracked flint. Zelda wonders: an oversight? An error? An idea discarded? All that she does know is that the configuration before her carries a riddle that the more recent publications do not.
"Doesn't it look like there is…do you think… is it possible there is an additional chamber here? It seems, at least, there was some intention of adding another one….could that be…" She hums in thought, places her thumb at the base of her chin and frowns in contemplation.
"Medoh's mobility will prove extremely useful in the air, but…" Something in her grows electric as synapses snap to life, "...if there are additional chambers…especially near the front of the fuselage…well, I suppose it's possible it could possess artillery we haven't anticipated—we could be missing a significant line of defense! Oh, but could that mean…?" Zelda is quickly leaning across her knight to retrieve a similar publication pertaining to Vah Ruta, her green eyes glinting with more than just the spun gold of winter sunlight that slides over them, and she's so preoccupied that her cheeks hardly even tint pink when her fingers brush past the leather that kisses Link's knuckles.
The Princess hasn't the slightest clue that she's vibrant .
At the door, however, the unintentionally intrusive eyes of the Sheikah advisor can see it.
But it isn't through the Princess' words or the way her voice inflects that she comes to make this observation, not really; it's in the knight attendant's look. In the way his gentle eyes refuse to abandon the sight of his liege's mouth, the way he never once glances down at the textbook she declaims from. The way his face softens in a way Impa's never seen when a small laugh breaks through the Princess' voice and the way his eyes grow limpid when she finally turns that smile upon him. He looks at her as though she is the sun, and she is made all the more luminous by it.
Oh my, Impa thinks above parted lips.
The shadows of twilight begin to lengthen earlier than usual, night sweeping across Hyrule skies before Impa can even finish the days' tasks. Shorter days have always filled her with a sense of dread, of inefficiency—matters made doubly worse by the impending apocalypse that idles on the horizon. But even in the midst of such apprehension, she finds herself returning to that look : that damned look that haunts Impa long after it's gone from her sight. Something about the knight's expression weighs so heavily on her that part of her feels as though she were on the receiving end of such a kind smile, and thought she's never considered herself to be particularly sensitive or delicate, the memory of it cuts so deeply, and it's something indescribable—feels a little like she's been pierced by a blade coated with tangible melancholy. Each time she crosses paths with the Princess, she finds it looming behind her, sweet azure blue veiled in that familiar stoicism; the mark of a proud knight, but Impa knows, she knows —the look that he's dressed the Princess with far exceeds his duty to her father. It has to. If not, then perhaps the concept of a loving look is no more than myth.
But then again, are the Princess and her Hero not comprised of myth anyway?
Impa finds herself calculating the precise way to broach the subject. It is a sensitive thing, and she finds herself at the burgeoning split of a crossroads; if there is any joy to be felt in Zelda's life, she wants the Princess to know it well; but Impa is only a woman, a woman who wants to see her future children grow up in a prosperous world. A woman who must ensure that the Princess reaches her goal for the good of the world.
Even so, it's hard to imagine that any sort of love between the two could be inherently wrong.
On an afternoon just shy of a week later, Impa finds herself approaching the Princess' door, afternoon shadows cutting across the deep fabric that runs throughout the hallway. She persists as she always does, her stomach twisted a little unfamiliarly as she rehearses bits of dialogue, silently.
She intends to share a brief moment between friends. Girl talk, as some of the maids might call it.
Sir Link stands at attention precisely where she expects him to be, and he greets her with a polite bow of his head.
"Is the Princess busy?" Impa bustles past the formalities, a rote smile stamped out across her lips.
Link shrugs as though he doesn't already know the answer, and it's all Impa can do to keep from rolling her eyes. He probably notices, because he's soon adding on: "She's reading, I think." Without another word, he steps aside and allows her to knock on the door.
"Link?" Zelda's voice wafts through the thick door, and the sound of his name untethered from his title sends Impa's stomach flipping.
"Princess, it's me." She swallows. "Could I have a moment of your time?"
"Enter!" Two bright syllables accompanied by the slight shuffle of books across her desk and the soft creak of her chair, and when Impa swings the door open, she's quick to notice the way the girl's eyes dart past her for a moment, an imperceptible peek at what lies beyond the door to her chambers. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?" Zelda smiles.
Impa returns it, suspicion pricking at the tips of her ears. "Can't a girl just stop by? It's been a while since I've seen you!"
"A girl can , I suppose." Zelda closes her textbook and hums. "You've been so busy. It's good to see you."
"I could say the same thing. How are things?"
Zelda drags a mindless glance back across her desk. "I'm hoping it won't take very long to receive correspondence back from the Rito. It would be wonderful if Vah Medoh could land for observation within the next week." She turns back with her smile dampened a bit. "Please, sit."
"Do you really think there's something we haven't come across?" Impa inquires, sliding into the open chair beside the Princess.
Zelda frowns. "The Sheikah have done a wonderful job…but it wouldn't hurt to investigate, just in case. We used more recent schematics, but…it can't hurt."
"I think it would be safe to assume they'd be up to date," Impa tries to reason, but as soon as the words are out in the open, she can hear how they sound: condescending, perhaps a little defensive, and something twists a little tighter in her gut when she notices the way the Princess' expression begins to fall.
Zelda clasps her hands together. "I don't mean to cast any aspersions on the Sheikah," she says, quietly, her voice tinged with guilt, and it's as though Impa can see the Princess' fortified walls starting to rise, stone by stone.
"No, I didn't mean—I completely understand." Impa is quick to say, palms raised pleadingly. "I'm so sorry if I've offended you Princess, I didn't mean to imply anything,"
Zelda only closes her eyes and sighs. "It's fine. Truly. I just meant that…a second investigation would give me some peace of mind." She turns and reaches to a smaller pile of textbooks at the corner of her desk, and flattened fingers pat a dark red hardcover. "I've also decided to read through some of the other personal Sheikah accounts. Some of the previous elders left some writings…they would have been close to the Princess of that era. Perhaps there is some bit of information that might be useful. Something that was helpful to that Princess."
"That all sounds logical to me." Impa considers her next thought, and she waits. Hesitates, lets the question simmer at her lips before she swallows down the discomfort and proceeds, slowly: "And…the Spring of Courage…you…it didn't….right?"
Plaintive light flickers in Zelda's eyes when she shakes her head. But still, she does not break.
"Not even a hint. Nothing. Hours spent in prayer. I wonder if…. Well, perhaps the Spirit of Courage is not who I must seek. I suppose I already have a bit of courage, after all…" she smiles to herself, "but it's power that eludes me…" Her voice trembles a bit. "So… so I hope I might find more luck at the Spring of Power. It must happen there."
Impa's lips mold down in an impressed smile. "Look at you, Princess! Your resilience is nothing short of impressive."
It's bait, and she knows it. The Zelda of months past would have been keen to snap it up—to panic at the reminder that resilience is meaningless . But the Zelda of this very moment pushes past it, only smiles and nods with resolution. "Thank you. I'm trying to be a little more optimistic these days."
Ah.
Impa returns her good-natured look, but it's soon breaks into something a little more playful. "You know… I did notice that you've been looking a tad more upbeat recently." She leans, eyes bright and all too eager. "What gives?"
Zelda blinks. "Nothing I'm aware of," she says, voice pitching upwards as though she's posing a question, "I just…well, I suppose I must keep moving forward."
Impa hums, crosses her legs and continues on in jest. "I was beginning to wonder if perhaps you'd found a handsome man somewhere out in the jungle."
"Oh my!" Zelda claps a hand across her mouth and giggles. " Really now? Impa, you are a nuisance…after all I've just said, you really think I'd be spending time fantasizing about romance of all things. Be serious, now!"
But the Princess is positively rosy .
"I'm just saying! You're in good spirits. It's…nice to see you smiling a little more. I know none of this can be easy for you."
Zelda closes her eyes and exhales, and when the jade of her glance reappears, the sea of gratitude is more than apparent, emphasized by the ghost of a thank you at her lips as she leans over and gives Impa's hand a gentle squeeze.
And it's here, in this stillness, that Impa knows she must proceed.
"Do you think Sir Link ever tires at your door?"
Blonde eyebrows quirk up with humor. "I'm sure he does…it can't be particularly enjoyable."
"He's a good man." Impa looks at her, searching for something, but Zelda raises that partition again and makes herself indecipherable, hides herself away from whatever thought Impa lays before her. "Has he warmed up to you?"
"I suppose so. In his own way."
Carmine eyes narrow slightly. "And have you warmed up to him?" Impa has to keep from sounding too inquisitive, curbs the speed of her words and softens the sharp edges that her tone seems to want to take on.
Zelda thinks for a moment. "Perhaps a bit. He did save my life, you know. That's not something to be taken lightly."
"Forgive me for speaking so boldly, but it's wonderful to see the Hero and Princess working together. It's marvelous—just like the legends say!"
Another round of bait strung up so neatly before her. Zelda would once have despised such a sentiment; but this modified version of her smiles and nods and continues on as though nothing's been said at all, hums agreeably and lowers her eyes and runs her fingers along the ridges of her textbook's weathered spine. Silence pounds against them, and Impa can feel her heart thudding against her ribcage—nosy and aggravating.
"Princess," she starts, her sound tinctured with the hint of warning, "may I ask a question?"
Zelda's finger slows, eyes flitting over to her companion. "Yes?"
"I hope you won't find it too bold, but…" Her breath catches under Zelda's expectant look, "...do you…" There is a way to frame this question, though it takes a moment for Impa to parse through her thoughts, "...do you ever wonder if perhaps Sir Link holds affections for you? Something beyond just duty?"
"I…" A veneer of pink settles across the Princess' cheeks and dapples her flustered look with something endearing, Zelda's mouth fumbling for a response, "...I do not find myself wondering about such things."
"Do you…do you ever…" For your King, for your country! "...do you ever wonder if you might ever hold any affection for him?"
Astonishment flashes across the Princess' face. "Oh, now that is bold."
"I'm sorry, I'm just curious!" Impa yelps, hiding a blush of her own behind gloved hands. "Something is different about you, that's all."
"And you believe my knight has something to do with it?"
"I don't know for certain! Hence why I'm asking."
"No, there is most certainly nothing transpiring between Sir Link and myself." Zelda's voice is on the edge of cracking, and the flush on her face sprawls out far enough to make Impa's eyes narrow even further in suspicion. "I admit I know him better than I did before, but…" She closes her eyes and laughs, the sound almost barreling from her, "...oh that's so silly , Impa!
"You know you can tell me. Right, Princess?"
"I know." Zelda leans over and gives Impa's hand another squeeze. "I know. I would tell you if anything were to ever transpire between myself and Sir Link. There's nothing to tell."
"I understand. I just want you to know that… if there were something, it would need to be kept quiet. More than quiet. If the King were to find out that Sir Link was proving to be a distraction…" She shakes her head with the smallest of grimaces.
Zelda recoils. "He would be dismissed?"
Impa nods. "My instinct tells me yes."
Whatever sweet sentiment has wreathed its way across Zelda's features is promptly squashed, replaced with something darker and far more authoritative. "Sir Link is the only reason that my throat was not slit on that day in the desert. I imagine that, without him, the castle would have had nothing to bury." Her chin crinkles. "Perhaps even worse than that—perhaps I would have been dropped at the front gates, headless."
Impa doesn't speak—only bows her head and nods in understanding.
"Frankly, I'm a little appalled by the thought…at the thought that Sir Link, for all of his talents and his efforts, would be removed for something as silly and insignificant as… feelings. " Sardonic laughter slips from her. "Have we really grown so desperate?"
"My apologies, Princess."
Zelda shakes her head and exhales through her nose, heavy and resigned. "Impa…" she starts again with a doleful smile. "At our final hour, Sir Link will be the one to save us all. I know it."
Impa nearly jumps from her seat. " Princess , don't speak like that—"
"It's true. I am trying, yes , but the Goddess does not smile upon me. I will keep trying, of course. That is my duty. My duty to you all. My duty to him . I must help him in any way that I can." When her gaze finally comes to rest on Impa, it's icy, a foretaste of the winter to come. " That is what you see between us." Zelda swallows, eyes cast down towards the trembling hands in her lap. "When the snow melts, I shall pay the Spring of Power a visit. And I will not be going without Sir Link at my side. He is a great comfort to me. I know that as long as he is around, I shall return unharmed."
"I understand, Princess."
"Now, Impa," Zelda clears her throat and raises a resolute glance, "I hate to send you on your way, but I would really like to finish this segment before dinner. Perhaps we might reconvene later for dessert?
There is little more to say, and Impa rises from her perch with a twisted stomach and muddled words pressing against her brain. She bows with a simple smile and bids farewell with a promise to share wildberry cake that evening, and she strides past Link with nothing more than a cordial nod.
She moves so quickly, so fueled by embarrassment that she doesn't notice the tips of his ears burnished pink.
Winter soon settles in fully, dragging its ivory cloaks across the region and blanketing the castle with thick sheets of pliant white. Inside, the first hints of cinnamon and pine rouse the sleep-drenched halls that have succumbed to the lull of autumn.
"Oh, Sir Link, look how lovely!" Zelda exclaims, snow crunching softly beneath her boots as she steps out beyond the foyer. She bends at the waist and collects a bit of it between gloved hands, carefully molding it into a sphere before tossing it in his direction. "Did you spend much time in the snow as a child?" she asks, silently gesturing for him to send it back.
"In the mountains, sometimes." He obliges, careful to keep from using too much force when he lobs it. Though the flurry has ceased for now, his cheeks are whipped with soft pink from the cold, and Zelda can only compare it to the finishing touches upon the fruitcake she likes so much, cream stained with the faint hint of strawberry. She won't let the thought crawl too far across her mind, but out among the wintery quilt so carefully laid out by the Goddess' hand, she can't help but admire the sight.
"Colder there, I'm sure?"
"A fair bit, I'd say."
Zelda turns and cocks her arm, her snowball quickly soaring out across the alabaster sea, and she can hardly notice where it touches down again and rejoins its oblivion.
"You have a good arm." Link's compliment floats across her shoulder.
"I do hope you're not mocking me, Sir Link," Zelda giggles, stretching arms to the sky with a sound of relief, and she can hear the way his laugh stifles behind her in return.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, and it fills her like warm cider and sweet apple pie.
Zelda bends to craft another snowball before she turns to Link, gesturing for him to draw nearer and handing it off to him when he arrives. "Let's see how far you can send it, then." He examines it as though it's a glinting diamond before launching it across the courtyard, and it lands, squashed, just a few yards past where hers seems to have fallen.
Blonde eyebrows disappear behind the russet brown fur that lines her hood. "Impressive," she says, voice as bright as the glinting snow. "As expected, of course."
She lowers herself again, gathers the snow beneath gloved fingers and promptly rises, turns quickly on her heel before she's even gained her full height and loses balance when her foot doesn't turn so easily, caught in a particularly thick patch of snowfall. By the time she yelps, she's already half sunken to her knees, the snowball fleeing from her grasp and hitting Link squarely in the shoulder. He tries to move quickly enough to catch her from falling entirely, but the surprise of cold bursting against him sends him stumbling back with flailing arms, and soon, both Princess and Knight are promptly collapsing into snow. Their shared glance only lasts for a moment, knocked away by a round of laughter that spills from both of them; their warm breaths visible in the chilled air.
"That's enough of the snow for now, I think." Zelda huffs across broken giggles.
Link's to his feet first and extending a gloved hand out, a kind smile tilting his lips up, and when she accepts his proffered help, she can't shake out the warmth the floods up through her, kisses along her spine and makes something tremble in her jaw.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice a little more breathless than she hopes. He acknowledges her with the softest you're welcome, practically inaudible under lips that hardly touch, but even the slightest hint of gentle air vibrating up through his throat is enough to send drips of warmth trickling into her, sinking past the layers of skillfully spun wool to burrow into her skin.
Zelda has spent most of the day striking through each task on her agenda; she's completed her prayers and finished her studies and convened with her tutors, and all that's left to do is share her thoughts with Impa at a briefing she's requested after dinner. In the meantime, all of the energy in Hyrule Castle has seemingly dwindled, and the day has quickly fractured into something that's almost as idle as summer; it's quiet, most of its personnel sent home early to beat the impending squall expected later that evening.
Under the afternoon's somnolent spell, Zelda yields to the comforting call of one of the castle's many plush sofas, choosing to spend her next hour curled upon one in a small study tucked away near the kitchens.
"Princess, would you excuse me for a brief moment?" Link asks. She nods, part of her wilting at his need for permission; surely a man ought to be able to visit a lavatory without the monarchy's approval? But the firewood upon the hearth has not yet warmed the room entirely and she's only just prepared her comfortable perch—an embroidered pillow against her back and another at her side, and a thick, wool blanket wrapped around the lower half of her body—when he reappears at her side, her title at his lips and a ceramic cup between his hands.
"Be careful. It's still warm."
Zelda leans closer, peers over the rim of the cup and nearly swoons when the sweet smell kisses up against her senses. "Hot cocoa?"
Link smiles, and she cannot tell if it's the prospect of such a treat igniting the fire behind her sternum or if his kind look is to blame.
"I thought you might enjoy a cup."
"You've come to know me very well, it seems."
Link sets the cup between her outstretched hands, and Zelda wastes no time in craning forward and sipping from it, her tongue swiping across her upper lip when she pulls away and savors the taste. She sips again, pulling away with evidence left on her face; a hint of whipped cream brushed up against the tip of her nose. Link chuckles, and when his Princess throws him an inquisitive look, he only taps the side of his nose with twinkling eyes.
"Oh!" Zelda is quickly rubbing at her nose, giggling nervously. Link's lips spread into a smile she doesn't think she's ever seen from him; she wonders if he's likely to bless her with one like this ever again.
She hopes that he will.
It all falls quiet, Link lowering his glance to keep from staring too hard, downcast eyes like a distant stream cascading through a forest. Even from just the edges of his look, there's something so mesmerizing, so fascinating, and the sudden memory of his nocturnal sounds twining with the feeling of his eyes on her is almost too much to bear in the silence of the study.
Zelda glances down at the cup between her hands, her cheeks every bit as warm as the cup between her hands. "Would you like some? It's delicious, really."
This seems to startle him. "Oh, no, I couldn't."
She gives him a look: be reasonable. "You like hot cocoa, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then won't you have a taste?" Her eyebrows lift softly at the arches. "Please?"
She offers the cup up to him much in the same way the clergymen present their offerings in the cathedral, gifts to the Goddess raised to the heavens in the deafening silence. Link blinks, once, twice—and as silently as ever, he accepts her gift, and Zelda can only watch, captivated, as his mouth replaces hers against the rim.
He swallows. "That is good," he says, his voice like a balm against the tension drawn tight in her chest.
"You're welcome to have more, if you'd like." She hopes he doesn't hear the way her voice shudders.
"I'll keep it in mind. Thank you very much."
Something churns in her stomach—something that's starting to feel more familiar than any vitriol she'd known in days past. And it's pleasant, far more enticing than all that bitterness that had twisted her heart and her mind and turned her exterior to stone.
"Would you sit beside me?" Her voice is quiet, hardly formidable enough to overpower the snap of wood that crackles in the fireplace.
He nods and follows, sets himself beside her and lets his body melt just a little into the cushions—sits close enough that he can inhale and find the smell of the sweet cocoa between her hands. Close enough that Zelda could lift a hand and easily find his knee beneath curious fingers.
Curiosity bursts in the silence, tinted with a longing that she does not recognize.
"You've come to know me very well, it seems."
The Princess' voice is bright and humorous, and Impa knows—she knows —that such a tone has never once been used in her presence.
Impa widens her strides as she continues down the hallway, and it doesn't take her very long to reach the typically unoccupied study. She creeps a little closer, leans in towards a door that's been left flung open.
"Would you like some?"
Impa leans across the frame to find the Princess lounging, swaddled in blankets and pillows, with her knight attendant standing before her, his back to a delectable fire; the Princess offering him her cup with the softest little plea tethered to her voice. Impa watches as the knight stands a little taller and accepts her offer— sips her drink before handing it back. And as their hands meet—as the Princess asks her knight to sit beside her in a voice Impa knows well from her own moments stolen in the shadows of the plum blossoms of Kakariko Village, only one thought floats across her mind:
The Princess of Hyrule, she thinks, is an excellent liar.